Talladega

Once in a lifetime - this is how I would describe our experience at Talladega speedway last October.  I joined Tony, my father-in-law, and Leslie for 10 laps in an authentic Talledega race car and in the process conquered a few fears.

Is it strange that completing 10 laps in a Talladega race car, during which I maxed out at 168 miles an hour, is one of my proudest life moments?  To understand why, you need to know my background.  Not one for small spaces or the feeling of "being out of control," I was slightly terrified climbing into the car (they remove the steering wheel so you can get in - it's that cramped).  The knowledge that I would be in complete control of the vehicle (the safety instructor in the passenger seat is only able to grab the wheel in case of an emergency - he has no accelerator or brake) left me petrified.  Surely going over 100 miles per hour would cause the car to feel out of control.  How was I going to tame this beast of a car alone?  The only instruction I would receive would be a series of hand signals as the car engine was too loud and the huge helmets too stifling to communicate with speech.  Thumbs up - increase speed.  Thumbs down - decrease speed.  Hand flat - maintain speed.  I would be wearing a large helmet and fire-proof suit in case, you know, I caught fire or something.  And let's not forget the shifting.  I was responsible for shifting the car into gear at the beginning of the race.  This task alone was scary enough to send me running for a refund.

But there were no refunds (I did investigate) and peer pressure is indeed a powerful force.  James, Leslie, Tony, and I were the last group to take to the track (there are 6 cars racing at one time) and by the time we climbed into our cars we had witnessed close to 20 people climb exhausted out of their cars - grins wide, eyes shell shocked, sweat pouring down their faces.  I prayed.  Prayed.  And prayed some more that I would not make an idiot of myself, hyperventilate, crash, or embarrass anyone in any way - visions of hand flapping and rocking while crying uncontrollably came to mind.  Tony encouraged me with the promise of an adrenaline rush that would make it all worth while.  I looked at him like he had grown a third arm.  "How is it that we have been married ten years and you do not know that I HATE adrenaline rushes?  They scare me."  Awkward silence as I'm sure he was echoing my prayer that I would, indeed, not embarrass anyone. 

When my name is called, I grit my teeth, walk straight to the car, and promptly inform the pit crew that I am scared to death.  "Randy, this is Sarah.  And she's a little nervous today," says Mr. Pit Crew man to my safety driver already in the car.  Little nervous?  That's putting it gently.  I effortlessly slide into the driver seat, then position my helmet snugly on my head  - snug enough to feel slightly claustrophobic.  With a big breath, my hands on the wheel, and my foot depressing the clutch, I shift to first.  Gently I let up on the clutch, and sputter, sputter, lurch, lurch, car dies.  Nervous laugh.  I'm cool.  I intentionally do not look over to the waiting area where I imagine my motorcycle enthusiast in-laws are either laughing or hiding their faces in shame.  My heart isn't outracing the cars already on the track.  No.  I'm calm.  I'm cool.  I'll try again.  My foot depresses the clutch while I shift to first, this time letting up a little more slowly.  Sputter, sputter, lurch, lurch.  Kaput.  Well, I tried.  Looks like it's not going to work.  Thanks for the opportunity.  "Try again," the instructor shouts as he applies pressure to my knee with his hand.  He pushes my knee down, then guides it up slowly with the palm of his hand.  And we're off! 

There's no speedometer to read as you race.  You have to rely on the instructor's hand signals alone to gage your speed.  My instructor's hand was frozen in a "thumbs up" - increase speed - position the entire race.  Just as a side note, Tony's instructor's hand was stuck in a "thumb down" - decrease speed - position through-out his race.  My plan, as devised in the waiting area before my name was called (remember I like control and I like making plans), was to obey EVERYTHING my instructor told me to do.  My parents raised me well - if you obey you will stay out of trouble.  So I obeyed and sure enough, by the last lap I was speeding through the steep banks and turns at over 168 miles per hour - missing my father-in-law's top speed by only 9 miles an hour!  And speeding through those world-famous steep banks?  It's truly like flying.  You are literally pushed down in your seat from the force of the speed.

Driving those 10 laps (technically 11 - my safety driver gave me an extra lap - we were totally buddies) was a monumental accomplishment for me.  I made a decision to face my fears and found that not only would I beat them, I would EXCEL!

Before the Race:

{Talladega Speedway}

{Grandpa James and Leslie} 

{In our fire-proof suits.  Fire-proof!?!?!?  We need fire-proof suits?!?!?!} 

{Cool as cucumbers}

{Smiling on the outside.  Nervous Nellie on the inside.  "Is this the right size?  Is it too big?  I don't want it to be too big.  It's safer if it fits snug, right?  Do you think I should put the shade down?  Or leave it open.  Probably open.  I'll breathe better that way."}

{"Um, excuse me.  I am scared to death.  I just want you to know.  I'm really scared."} 

 {The fake smile.  Oh, how I have perfected the fake smile.}

{And this is why she is cool and I am not.  Leslie is genuinely excited climbing into her car.}

After the Race:

 {"That was awesome.  I was so scared!  Wow, I did it!"  Pictures of me telling a story serve as great reminders to simmer down with the facial expressions.}

{My safety instructor.  He was such an encourager with his "thumbs up" and pantomime clapping.  I felt bonded to the man by the end.}

Before you know it I'll be jumping out of a plane, being sure to avoid the flying pigs as I plummet to Earth....